


Pretence

by wreckofherheart



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/F, Heavy Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 06:54:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4212189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreckofherheart/pseuds/wreckofherheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their kiss is her signing her own death sentence. A sworn promise to follow her to the grave.<br/>[Peggy/Angie]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretence

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya. I'm afraid I've kicked the "A" in angst with this oneshot. Sorry, but not sorry.  
> Thank you for reading! Kudos/feedback is very much appreciated.

     There is blood.

     A _lot_ of blood.

_Too much blood_. Her hands are sticky with it, and the entire room smells of iron, metallic, the scarlet liquid pooled at her feet. She’s traumatised. She’s frozen in place, open, bloody palms at her sides, staring at the woman before her. Only minutes ago, Peggy had returned to the mansion soaked in blood, and in some desperate, frantic, _terrified_ urgency, Angie hurried over and _touched_ her. It was a mistake: now, she’s covered in the ugly substance, and it _won’t come off_.

     Peggy strips off her torn jacket. Her blouse is no longer white, but the colour of her lips.

     She’s too busy pouring a sink of hot, soapy water to notice Angie’s horror. Her ignorance isn’t selfish––this woman is simply prioritising. She’ll tell Angie what happened soon, or she’ll tell her as much as she can. She won’t inform her about her agency business. She won’t inform her that she had discovered the hideout of a few _Hydra_ fanatics. Nor the fact she had managed to kill at least _four_ of the eight that were present. She won’t tell Angie about that; _she can’t tell Angie about that_. 

     Even draped in mystery, Peggy is dangerous.

     Scrubbing her dirty hands clean, she internally curses. Maybe it was a mistake to move in with Angie so soon. _Stupid, stupid, stupid_. ‘Come here,’ she says. Peggy peers at Angie over her shoulder, and she hasn’t moved an inch. Her eyes are wide, and she can’t stop staring at the blood on Peggy’s blouse. ‘Please come here. You have blood on your hands.’ It’s Peggy’s tone which manages to distract Angie from her blouse. The sort of tone she would use on soldiers, the sort of tone which anybody _obeyed_. To her relief, Angie comes towards her, but hesitantly.

     Now, she’s starting to collect the pieces. Peggy doesn’t like the way Angie is watching her; _she’s never looked at her this way_. She looks at Peggy like her colleagues do. _Like she doesn’t understand what she is; like she doesn’t_ ** _want_** _to understand what she is_. Angie always knew Peggy was involved in an interesting line of work, _but not like this_. It takes the younger woman a while to find her voice, to find the courage to speak to her friend who has turned into a stranger.

     The blood is cleansed from her hands, and she backs away, looking at Peggy in her entirety. 

     A nasty gash across her cheek. A cut travelling from her forehead down to the bridge of her nose. Her lower lip is swollen, bleeding. _Good God_. ‘You gotta tell me what’s goin’ on, English,’ she stutters, and she means it. She needs to _know_. 

     Peggy sighs, somewhat relieved she’s finally asked, somewhat irritated she has to explain herself. _She’s been through enough Hell today_. ‘It was business,’ she says, looking Angie in the eye. ‘Work. I was sent away to–– _deliver_ a message. It has all been resolved, so I assure you there is nothing to worry about. Please don’t look at me that way.’

     ‘What way?’ Angie doesn’t necessarily have a temper. She’s more the type to feel upset, hurt, and have these “silent” periods with the offender. Angie is passive in her anger. Which makes things more difficult for Peggy. ‘You keep leavin’ me in the dark. Never seen someone covered in blood after _just deliverin’ a message_.’ She’s mocking her. That’s the only way she can deal with this; she mocks her because it’s how she’ll be able to cope. 

     So Peggy lets her mock her, but she’s not the type to back down. At all. Yet what comes out her mouth is hushed and hurried. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’ To her misfortune, Angie hears that, and the atmosphere in the room stiffens. 

     That was a foolish thing to say.

     ‘So I wouldn’t understand ‘cos––what? I’m just a silly gal without a brain.’

     ‘No,’ Peggy retorts. ‘... It’s classified.’

     Angie’s face is contorted with fear and puzzlement. ‘Why d’you act all shady ‘round me, Peg? Did’ya honestly think I’d not notice you lookin’––’ She swallows, ‘––like _this_?’

     ‘I can’t tell you.’ _I can’t tell you because you wouldn’t understand. You wouldn’t understand that me not telling you will keep you safe. You wouldn’t understand that the amount of people I’ve lost has been because of_ ** _my_** _reckless actions. Because, somehow, my honesty has led them to their deaths._ ‘You have nothing to be afraid of. I promise you that.’ _As long as I don’t tell you, don’t mention you, keep you hidden, you’re safe._ ‘All right?’

     No. It’s not all right. Angie doesn’t fight, though. ‘Fine.’ Her voice is quiet and she looks away from her, staring at the wall opposite. She’s almost in a daze. Still horrified at the sight of Peggy when she walked in. By just touching her face, Angie was coated in blood. Peggy exhales heavily––impatient, grumpy, _so damn tired_ and continues washing the blood off herself. They are silent for an uncomfortable amount of time, and the longer they’re silent, the more upset Angie gets. Finally, she can’t hold it back anymore, and turns to Peggy again––teary eyed. ‘Why don’t you talk to me?’

     Peggy is startled by her sudden reaction. ‘I’m sorry?’

     ‘I thought I was your friend! But you don’t tell me a thing about your life. Why’d ya ask me to live with you when you still won’t tell me what you do every night––’ She raises her brows, realising something, ‘––Is that it? You’re too ashamed to tell me what it is?’ Peggy frowns. ‘I’ve had friends who work in that–– _business_ too.’ There’s a long pause, and then it hits.

     ‘I’m not a prostitute.’

     ‘Oh.’ Angie’s face falls. Disappointed. While prostitution is a dangerous business, at least Angie would know! If not prostitution, then what on _earth_ is Peggy doing during these dark hours? Why does she come back from “the office” late? Why does she leave the mansion at spontaneous hours, and return with an injury? Why does she not say anything to Angie? Peggy pulls out the plug, and the bloody water swirls down the drain. Angie places a hand behind her back, and clenches it. ‘What _do_ you do, Peggy?’

     Instantly, Angie realises she’s made a mistake.

     She has asked and asked and asked, and now it’s _unbearable_. Peggy has always appeared quite stable in her eyes. She’s never been angry at her, never scolded her, never yelled at her––not once. Peggy has been surprisingly patient, sympathetic. If anything, she’s acted gentle towards Angie’s words. Because Peggy _is_ gentle. She _is_ patient. She _is_ empathetic. She is so many wonderful, loving traits, but she’s _secretive_. Behind those eyes are hundreds, millions of secrets, and it’s eating her alive. 

     And _that_ is upsetting. That’s what breaks Angie’s heart.

     Peggy finally _snaps_.

     Her anger isn’t explosive, nor violent. 

     Peggy is cold. A wolf, bearing its teeth, homing in on its prey. She is frightening, but it’s her coldness which hurts. Her lack of feeling. Her _bluntness_ , as if the warmth in her has been zapped out. ‘And why do you need to know, Angie? I haven’t lied to you. I have been nothing short of honest.’ She dries her hands on a towel. ‘I _do_ talk to you, but I only tell you as much as you _need_ to know.’ Peggy walks towards her, slow and steady, stopping when she’s close enough to highlight their height differences. She uses this to her advantage, and Angie is conscious of now having to look up at her slightly. All of a sudden, Peggy _towers_ over her, eyes dark and menacing. ‘However, if you’re truly that keen, then I’ll tell you every tiny detail. Only us two occupy this mansion, so no one will hear the blast when I shoot your skull afterwards.’

     Slapping her would have been a lesser agony.

     Angie is determined not to feel afraid––at least not _express_ her fear. Peggy is _complex_. She is scary, _she’s so scary_ , and she’s _pushing her away_. Angie’s hands are trembling, and tears burn her cheeks, and then her entire body responds to the trauma. She’s _attacked._ Her heart cracks, tearing inside her, and her lungs collapse. The strain not to burst into tears, not to weep before her, is almost impossible. Her throat narrows, aches, and she shudders uncontrollably.  

     Peggy won’t tell her the truth because she _can’t_. She has pledged not to. She’ll have no choice but to point a gun at Angie’s head, and pull the trigger, and Peggy would do it.

     She would shoot her.

     Mere feelings become irrelevant when duty is involved.

     What a ghastly way to live. What an _inhumane_ way to live. Peggy can change _just like that_. The moment she is threatened, she changes into this _machine_. Merciless and so _detached_. Angie doesn’t recognise her anymore, and she wants this all to _stop_. She wants Peggy to stop. Angie glares at her with watery, wide eyes, ‘Do I have to spell it out for you?!’ A sob breaks from the back of her throat, and Peggy’s solid expression is disturbed. ‘I’m only askin’ ‘cos I _care about you_ , Peggy. I’m so scared of you and what you’re doin’ all the time. I just want you _safe_ , okay? And if you have to shoot me in the head for feelin’ that way then go right ahead.’ Her lower lip quivers, but she doesn’t look away. ‘If that’s really what you gotta do,’ those last words are whispered, trembling with her voice. 

     The next five seconds crumble the barrier between them.

     There is a wait, a beat, and Peggy’s face reveals every tiny thought spinning in her heavy head. Regret, guilt, a hundred apologies, heartbreak, grief, mourning, _loss_ , and the weight of so many _deaths_ on her hands, so many corpses rotting away in their coffins––all because of her. The war. The effects of the men who _bully_ her. And now Angie, her only friend, aside from Jarvis, who _likes_ her. Who _cares_ about her. Who cries at the sight of her wounds.

     The way Peggy looks at her–– _Oh, God_.

     Even the heartless would collapse to their knees and shatter.

     Angie holds herself tightly while she cries. Her cries aren’t vocal, but every inch of her viciously responds. She presses her back up against the wall, leans forwards slightly, scrunching her eyes closed as tears pour relentlessly. She holds onto herself so fiercely, her knuckles turn white. Peggy is speechless. _What has she done?_ Instinct forces her to be as close as possible to this poor woman, press her hands onto her trembling shoulders, to try and console her, but whenever she opens her mouth, words do not pass her lips. She struggles with her guilt. 

     She’s hurt the last person she’d ever want to hurt.

     Her blouse is still coated in dry blood. She smells of it, and... is that gunpowder? A little alcohol. The exhaustion of today. Peggy reflects the very entity that she is not: sin. Her hands have killed, manipulated, held too many weapons. And yet––

     ––and yet. Her hands are so _soft_ on Angie’s body. 

     Finally she’s able to talk. Barely. ‘I’m sorry.’ Her hands slip from Angie’s shoulders. ‘I’d never hurt you.’ Peggy makes a motion to leave; she’s retreating. She’s walking away, too afraid to cause further damage on her dear friend. And, really, that’s all she’s good at: walking away. Saying farewell before the guilt drowns her. She’ll give Angie room to think, to process, to eventually decide that she will pack her bags and leave her. _Because that’s what she expects, always_.

     Angie is blind with tears, but she manages to catch Peggy’s hand in the fog. Angie slams her mouth onto hers, gasping, fingers pulling at her blouse. Blood sticks to her flesh. Tormenting and vile. Her nose bumps into hers when she kisses Peggy again––hard and aggressive. Forcing her to stay, desperate for Peggy to kiss her too, hold her, _need her_. Angie is still shaking, and her lips on Peggy’s only makes the terror even worse. 

     But she wants her close. _Closer_.

     Despite what Peggy thinks, Angie isn’t going anywhere.

     And maybe that makes her stupid. Maybe that makes her smart.

     Angie kisses her, anxious and urgent, running her hands through her thick hair. Her anticipation is felt. Peggy finally reacts. Her soft palms meet either side of Angie’s face, and her kisses are slow, deep, _calm_. Angie’s fear evaporates, and she feels her body tumbling, overwhelmed by Peggy’s gentle kisses. She pulls at her blouse again, only to embrace her, wrap her arms around the back of Peggy’s neck, press herself into her. 

     She shouldn’t love her, she knows that much. But she does, she does, she _does_.

     Their kiss is her signing her own death sentence. 

     A sworn promise to follow her to the grave.  


End file.
